The Spy Who - The Spy Who Sold Codes and Cocaine | Prison Break | 3

Episode Date: February 17, 2026

With drug deals to pay for, Daulton Lee’s desperate to get back into the KGB’s good books. So when Christopher Boyce finds a big new secret to sell, the pair spy an opportunity for one last payday.See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

This episode includes depictions of torture and drug use. Please be advised. November 2nd, 1976, Mexico City. Dalton Lee looks out at the crowd surging around his taxi. It's the Day of the Dead Festival, and hundreds are in skeleton masks and costumes and playing maracas or drums. Others carry flowers and hold lighted candles for the dead.

Lee takes a sniff of cocaine to steal his nerves. He's on his way to the Soviet embassy, and he's not sure of his welcome. He can't remember much of his last visit. It's a blur of alcohol and drugs. He remembers a lot of shouting, mostly at him. He arrived in Mexico City yesterday and signalled for a meeting, but his KGB handlers never showed.

Now he's desperate. He has a shipment of heroin coming due for payment, and he's out of money. But he's been sitting on some of the spy satellite ciphers and documents provided by his friend Christopher Boyce for moments just like this. The taxi drops Lee near the Soviet embassy. Now he's here.

He needs to get past the security guard at the entrance. He spots a black limo with diplomatic number plates causing the traffic. It's heading towards the embassy. He grins and joins the crowd milling on the sidewalk outside the entrance. The limo inches forward and then turns into the embassy. As the gates open, Lee crouches down near the back tire of the limo on the opposite side to the security guard.

Staying low, he moves on his haunches, using the cover of the car to sneak inside the walled embassy. He keeps to the shadows of the garden and waits for the front door to open to let in the limo's occupants. He rushes in behind them and addresses the startled guard. I need to see Boris.

You know, KGB, Boris. The guard looks startled, but then goes to find someone. Lee leans against the wall feeling clever, But then, his KGB handler, Boris Grishin, appears. You were told not to come here. Are you stupid? Lee holds out an envelope with a few strips of Minox film inside. I signalled you, you never came. I've got more ciphers for you. I need $10,000 for them.

You said he could get the frequencies. You lied. Hey, I am sick of risking my ass for you Russians and not getting paid enough for it. Before he knows what's happening, Grishin pulls Lee's jacket over his head. so his arms are pinned helplessly in the air, and he can't see anything. He feels himself being manhandled out to the embassy and pushed into the limo. Unable to see, he tries to reason with Grishin. Listen, if you don't want what we got, I'll take it to the Chinese. Help!

A hard kick silences Lee. Be quiet. The limo lurches forward and speeds out onto the noisy streets. Fear starts to corrode Lee's cocaine-induced confidence. He wonders if he's pushed the Soviets too far. Eventually, the car slows. Lee feels someone reach over and open the door. The car is still moving as Lee is pushed out.

No, no, please! No! He hits the cobblestones hard. Disoriented and terrified, he gets to his feet just in time to see the limo disappear around a corner, along with his chance to get the money he needs to pay for the heroin he's bought. From audible originals, I'm Raza Jaffrey, and this is The Spy Who. In the last episode, distrust broke out between spy buddies Christopher Boyce and Dalton Lee,

leading to a drunk and bust up in front of the KGB. Now the Russians are ghosting them, but neither Boyce or Lee are ready to quit. You're listening to The Spy Who Sold Codes and Cocaine. This is episode three, Prison Break. One month later, December 7, 1976, Los Angeles. From a room on the third floor of the Hacienda Airport Hotel, Dalton Lee watches the children playing in the pool. He got a message from Christopher Boyce to meet him here, but he doesn't know why.

Boyce enters carrying a satchel bag. Ah, good. You're already here. Yeah, I am, but why? One last photography session. No way, man. I am done with the Russians. They threw me out of a moving car last time I saw them. All this spy shit we've been doing, it's over, man.

It's your own fault. You're always holding stuff back or telling them you can get stuff you can't. But this is the real deal. Boyce upends the satchel bag into the bed, and a thick lever-arch file slides out. On its front is the logo of TRW, the spy satellite maker Boyce works for, and a label. Top secret, Pyramida.

What's Pyramida? It's a spy satellite system TRW designed for the CIA. It will let them communicate with agents anywhere in the world at any time. Can't they do that already? No. They have to wait for the satellite to be overhead. That point is, it's big. It's going to be worth at least $75,000 to the Soviets.

Lee hesitates. $75,000 is a lot of money, enough to pay off the mounting debts from his failed drug deals. Boyce grins at him. Think about it. One last delivery to the Russians before I go to college, and then we're out. So, let's make it an epic one.

Boyce starts taking each piece of paper out of the file and taping it to the wall, ready to be photographed. He glances at Lee. Well, okay, fine. Let me make a quick call first. Lee runs downstairs to the payphone in the hotel lobby. He covers the receiver with his hand as he speaks. Yeah, it's me.

Yeah, but in the order. Five pounds. I'm telling you, it's definitely coming in this time. I'll pay you in January, okay? He hangs up and rubs his hands together. He could double, even triple, his share of the 75,000 with a successful drugs deal. That is his ticket out of the game.

A retirement on the beaches of Costa Rica, or perhaps the capital, to start a legitimate business with his brother. Lee bounces back up the stairs two at a time, his fear of the Soviets forgotten. The following month, January 1977, Mexico City. Lee paces the streets overlooking the Soviet embassy with a nightmarish sense of deja vu.

Once again, the Soviets are ignoring his signals requesting a meeting. The thought of what Boris might do if he turns up at the embassy again makes him feel queasy. But if he doesn't get the money to his Mexican contact in Kulia Khan by tomorrow, they'll put out a hit on him. He chooses lip with worry and indecision. Finally, he thinks he has a solution. He takes his Spanish-English dictionary out of his pocket

and removes the dust jacket. Then he fishes a stubby pencil out of another pocket and scribbles the letters KGB on it. He scrunches it into a ball, crosses the road, and lobs it over the top of the fence and into the Soviet embassy gardens. But as he turns to walk away, he hears a shout. A Mexican police officer is running to walk.

He must have seen him throw the note over the fence. Get there, Usted. Sorry, I don't understand. Ablez English? Other Mexican police officers arrive and begin talking to the Soviet security guard, who shakes his head at them. A woman walks out from the embassy and notices the altercation. Lee hails her with relief.

Hey, hey, do you speak English? Yes. Are you American? Yeah. I'm with the U.S. embassy. What's the problem? I don't know. I was just looking at the building when these policemen accosted me.

The US official speaks in rapid Spanish to the police, then turns back to Lee. They say you threw something over the fence and the Russian security guard picked it up but won't hand it over. Oh, just an empty cigarette packet. What are they accusing me of? Well, littering, I suppose. Hang on, let me check. As the police and the US official talk in Spanish, Lee remembers he has a joint of marijuana in his jacket pocket. If the police find it, he could be looking at jail time. Casually, he turns his back on the group, takes a few steps and tries to surreptitiously drop the joint in the gutter, but one of the policemen notices it. He rushes over, picks up the joint and sniffs it.

Ha, Cannabis, is detained. Lee curses under his breath. He knows enough Spanish to understand when he's being arrested. Sometime later, police headquarters, Mexico City. The inspector of police looks at Lee's belongings, which have been laid out. on the desk in front of him. He picks up the envelope filled with photo negatives and holds one of them up against the light.

What are these? I'm a photographer. I'm doing an advertisement shoot. The police officer peers closer at the images. These are documents? Yeah, yeah, they're mock-ups. It's an advertisement that pretends this stuff that's so important that it's top secret.

Lee smiles, but the police inspector is no longer interested in the film. He's now more interested in the postcard given to him by the Russians. On it is an image of the traffic intersection and lampposts that Dalton uses to signal the KGB for a meeting. Why do you have this? I'm a tourist, it's a postcard. The inspector scowls. I think you lie. The inspector fetches a newspaper and slaps it down on the desk in front of Lee. On the front page is a photo that resembles the picture on Lee's postcard. The headline says a policeman was murdered

there by communist terrorists. Lee's eyes widened with fear. No, no, it's a coincidence. You're a communist insurgent. You're working with the Russians. I'm not. If you want to know the truth, I'm working for the CIA. I'm giving the Russians disinformation. The inspector scoffs and nods to the police officer standing behind Lee. He steps forward and bangs both of Lee's ears sharply at the same time. You are not, CIA. You are an a... No, I'm not, please. You have to believe me.

Suddenly, Lee's arms are pulled behind his back and tied up. He's dragged out of the inspector's office, bundled into a car, and driven to a deserted office block. Different police officers appear, surrounding him in a menacing circle. Lee fears they are Mexican secret police. One of them steps forward. You would do better to confess, Amigo. We know you've met with KGB officers. No.

Well, yeah, but nothing to do with Mexico. Lee doubles over with pain from the blow to his kidneys. Who do you work for? I work for the CIA. I'm spreading disinformation to the Russians. Lee is punched in the kidneys again. It feels as if he's inside you're about to explode. Liar, why did you murder the policeman?

I didn't. I promise. I didn't. Two of the policemen grab Lee by his legs and drag him over to a dirty bathroom. They hoist him up so he's upside down over the toilet. It's full of feces and urine. Tell the truth. I have.

I didn't kill anybody. But his screams are in vain. The men dunk his head into the foul, stinking bowl again and again until he vomits. The next day. University of California campus, Riverside. Christopher Boyce strolls through the leafy campus towards a payphone. He's now a college student studying history and political science, and the KGB are paying for his education.

The Soviets hope Boyce will eventually secure a job in US intelligence and become even more useful. He calls the Holiday Inn in Mexico City where Lee is staying. He wants to know what the Soviets thought of the Pyramida documents. Could you put me through to one of your guests? Mr. Lee. I'm sorry, sir, but Mr. Lee is not here. Could you check again? Please, he was booked in for tonight. He is the receptionist whispering to someone.

You know, I don't want to speak to me, sir. A man comes on the line. I'm afraid Mr. Lee was arrested yesterday. You need more information. You can try the American embassy. Boyce hangs up the phone quickly, his mind spinning. He doesn't know if Lee was arrested for drugs or for spying, but he knows it doesn't matter. It's over.

and sooner or later the FBI will show up at his door. He walks slowly amidst the carefree students, lost in his thoughts. He's got at least a day's grace, maybe more, long enough to disappear. A few hours later, Ontario, Southern California. Inside the airport, Boyce looks at the clattering departures board of destinations and wonders where he should get a flight to. After a few moments, he decides it doesn't really matter and heads to the closest check-in desk.

But as he gets in line, he feels sudden nausea and light-headedness. He abandons the queue and finds a row of seats. Head low, he tries to control his breathing. Will this be his life now? Anxiety stalking him night and day. And what's the point? The FBI will probably find him anyway. After an hour of thinking, he stands and strides to a payphone.

If he's going to spend the rest of his life in prison, then he needs to set something straight. He dials the number for his ex-girlfriend, Alana. On the dance floor of a darkened nightclub, Boyce stands with his arms around Alana, swaying to the slow music. Despite her hurt over their breakup, she agreed to meet him.

Now it's getting late. Boyce holds Alana tightly with her head cradle into his shoulder, and her heartbeat against his chest. He lowers his head, so his lips are next to her ear. I didn't meet it. She lifts her head and looks into his eyes. Didn't mean what? When I told you I didn't love you?

It wasn't true. I've always loved you. Alana smiles lovingly at him and puts her fingers against his cheek. I know, stupid. They kiss and voice wishes it could last forever. But he knows tomorrow he'll need to leave her again. This memory will be all he has to hang on to. One week later, Mexico City.

After several days of interrogation by Mexico's secret police, Lee is back in the city's police headquarters, battered, unshaven, and foul-smelling. He is led into a more civilized interview room, where two white men in suits are waiting. His heart leaves. Are you Americans? Please, you have to get me out of here. I'm being tortured. One of the men nods and pushes forward a stack of photos. But with the FBI, and we can get you out of here, Mr. Lee, but first we need to ask you a few questions. about these.

Lee looks with foreboding at the photos. He recognises them. They've been developed from the microfilm he had on him when he was arrested, and at the top of each photo are the words, top secret, pyramid. Two days later, January 16, 1977, Southern California. Boyce sits in the passenger seat of a station wagon with an empty hawk cage on his lap.

The driver is another falconer who Boyce has spent the day helping. It's been just over a week since he found out about Lee's arrest, and Boyce has moved into a shack he rents on a former turkey farm to spend as much time with Falcons as possible before his inevitable arrest. Boyce's companion pulls up outside the shack. Wanna have another go trapping that hawk next weekend? But in the side mirror, Boyce has spotted the telltale dust cloud of a car driving up fast behind them.

I think there might be otherwise engaged. A long brown car. screeches to a gravel-spraying halt behind them. Men rush out from hiding in nearby turkey bends with their guns raised. FBI, freeze! Which one of you is Boyce? His terrified companion puts his hands in the air and stares at Boyce with wide eyes. It's enough for the FBI agents. Boyce's door is yanked open. The hawk trap is flung onto the ground

and Boyce is pulled roughly out by his shirt front, spun around and slammed face up against the car. His arms are twisted painfully behind him, as they pat him down for a weapon before snapping cuffs on him. Christopher John Boyce, you are under arrest for espionage. You fucking traitor. Boyce doesn't answer. With the side of his face pressed against the car, he can see through the window of his rented shack and into his bedroom. And there, on a perch, bobbing and screeching is his falcon, unsettled by the noise of his arrest. I'm sorry, boy. I'm so sorry.

Boyce is roughly pushed into the backseat of the FBI car. The car door slams shut. Tears spring to his eyes as it also shouts out his falcons cry. Almost three years later, late 1979, Lompock Prison, California. Where'd your stuff go, short ass? From the doorway, Boyce surveys the blackened and sooty remains of Dalton Lee's prison cell. Even though Boyce lives on a different wing, he knows this isn't the first time other prisoners

have sprayed Lee's cell with lighter fluid and lit a match. Inside the cell, Lee picks up the warped plastic lump that used to be his radio. He scowls when he sees Boyce standing at his door. How the hell do you want? Since their arrests, Boyce and Lee's interactions have been few and fraught. They had separate trials,

where each blamed the other for their essence. espionage crimes. Lee claimed Boyce was actually a CIA agent who ruthlessly used him as a hapless pawn. A story Boyce has since learned that Lee has convinced himself is the truth. Boyce emphasized Lee's blackmail threats as a reason he felt compelled to continue spying. Now they are both convicts and serving time in the same prison. Boyce has tried to restore their friendship. He knows prison life is difficult enough without more enemies. But Lee is very. resistant and bitter. His short stature has also made him the target of relentless harassment by other prisoners. Boyce checks no guards are nearby. I came to discuss something we've talked

about before. Boyce finds prison life impossible to bear. He still has nightmares about a prisoner who was hacked to pieces in the cell next to his a few months ago. So Boyce has made repeated attempts to escape from other prisons, which has seen him put in solitary confinement for long periods. But that didn't stop him planning another prison break as soon as he arrived at Lompoc. Lee rolls his eyes. Unless you are planning on hiring a helicopter, it's not going to work. I found a blind spot and a hole. We can move under the cover of darkness.

We? You want to stay here? I hate to break it to you, but I don't think your neighbours like you very much. Lee scowls at him and starts sweeping up the charred remains of his letters and books. Given that your bright idea got us in here, I think I'll pass. Boyce feels a spurt of anger. He's upset at how their friendship has disintegrated, but Lee also irritates him like no one else. Fine, I just didn't want to leave without giving you a chance to leave too.

I can look after myself. Lee turns his back on him and Boyce walks away. Two months later, in the grounds near the outer perimeter of the prison, Boyce is in a work gang that's clearing out silt from a concealed drainage pipe. But this job is just a ruse, Bayes escape. Boyce has befriended the prisoner who heads the work gang and told him about his escape plan. The prisoner is close to parole, so has decided not to go with Boyce, but he's promised

to help by forging a work order to unblock the drain. They've used that forgery to spend the last four hours pretending to be digging out silt from the drain hole when they're actually turning it into an even deeper hole. And now the time for Boyce to make his break has come. As the The sun starts to set, Boyce signals to his friend. I just dig that last bed out. Boyce lowers himself feet first into the drainage hole. It's a tight squeeze. The hole is only just wide enough to fit his thin shoulders, but he's dug down deep enough

that once inside his head disappears from view. To maintain the ruse, he starts digging mud and muck out with a coffee can and handing it up to his friend above. After 15 minutes of digging, his prison pal passes down a hessian bag of escape tools that Boyce quickly conceals beneath his feet. From above, Boyce hears a guard approached the worker group. Are you finished yet? I think we're about done, sir. Boyce listens as the work group packs away their tools. His friend's face appears at the entrance to the drain. He winks at Boyce, then replaces the grate that covers the hole. Boyce lies tightly curled in the gloom of the

drain. He waits for the guards and work group to leave. He holds his breath, sure that the guards will soon notice his absence. But there is no alarm, just the onset of silence as curfew kicks in. He breathes a sigh of relief. In his cell, hidden under his bed, is a papyamache bust he made of himself. Once back in the prison, his friend will stick that figure under the blankets on his bed to fall the guards doing the night rounds. Nobody will notice he's gone until the morning. A few hours later, Boyce removes the grate slowly and pulls his mud-caped body out of the drain. He crouches low and hurries through the darkness of the blind spot at the perimeter that he spotted months ago. The blind spot was created when a new guard tower was built without removing the old guard tower,

and Boyce appears to be the only person who has realised the security floor. It's also near the only part of the fence that doesn't have a double roll of razor wire on the other side. From the Hessian bag, he pulls out the two-by-fours he made in the prison workshop and leans them against the fence to create a makeshift ladder. Next, he gets a toothbrush and a small tin of petroleum jelly. He climbs the ladder and smears the jelly onto the electrical junction to disable the alarm. Alarm disabled, Boyce takes out the last item from the bag, a pair of tin snips which he uses to cut through the fence and the razor wire.

He pushes through the gap and runs it. and runs into the darkness of the woods beyond the prison. Two nights later, Royce feels his shirt catch on the barbed wire fence as he tries to slide under too quickly. He's spent the past 48 hours avoiding the helicopters and the US marshals that are hunting for him in the woods behind the prison.

Now he's left the cover of the trees and is heading north through open pasture land. But a pack of dogs owned by the cattle rancher have picked up his scent and are in pursuit. He can hear the dogs closing. the gap. Panic-stricken, he tries to think of a way to escape, but it's too late. The dark shapes of the dogs rush across the hard ground and surround him, growling, yelping and snapping. Get away! Go on! Go on! Go on! Boyce tries to kick them away, but he can hear the rancher's pickup

truck closing in. The thought of going back to prison prompts a spurt of adrenaline. He dodges and weaves desperately to avoid the dog's snarling teeth and then spots a steep ridge near Below it is the glint of a river. If he can just reach it, he might still have a chance. 18 months later, July 1981, rural Idaho, near the Canadian border. Boyce leads a pack mule, down a steep path that winds through the dense mountain forests

and emerges into a cleared area around a large log cabin. From a battered pickup truck, parked outside, a huge man with a ginger beard emerges. Boyce smiles at him. Calvin, good to see you. Let me just yard the mule. The red-headed man jerks his thumb at the mule. You could be some old-time fur trapper coming in for supplies.

I'm enjoying it. I'm so grateful to you for setting me up here. Boyce met Calvin Robinson in prison, just after his conviction. Boyce was 24 years old and terrified. Robinson took pity and looked after him. Robinson was released a few years ago, and he was the first person Boyce sought out after his escape. Despite the risks to his parole, Robinson gave his help without hesitation,

providing Boyce with a fake ID and arranging for him to stay in a remote cabin up in the mountains. Now, once a month, Boyce comes down to his lodge for supplies, and to pay for them, he now robs banks. Robinson reaches through the window of his truck to grab a collection of pamphlets. He hands them to Boyce with a raised eyebrow. This is the kind of thing you wanted? Boyce nods and flicks through them eagerly. All of them are advertising leaflets for flying lessons.

Robinson watches him, mystified. You mind telling me why you need to fly a plane? If you want to get to Canada, you can just walk it from here. Not just a plane helicopter. You go to Russia in a helicopter? Boyce shakes his head. He knows Robinson won't understand, but he owes him the truth. I'm going back for Dalton.

You are going to do it. jailbreak, Dalton Ali, are you crazy? Probably, but I only gave him one chance to escape. You don't owe that guy nothing. He made his choices. He would have got caught for the drugs one day. Maybe, but my escape made things much worse for him. He got moved to a different prison so his family couldn't visit.

That's on me. But he's back in Lumpark now, and I've got a plan. Robinson looks at Boyce with real concern. And what do you think is going to happen when you fly your helicopter over the prison? You'll have to message Dalton in advance, and I guarantee you, he will grass you up so he can get a shorter sentence. Boyce drops his head and kicks the tire of the pickup truck distractedly. Finally, he looks up and his thin, sensitive face is consumed with guilt.

Yeah, you're probably right. Me and Dalton? We grew up together. We got into this together. I can't sleep knowing that I'm free and he isn't so. I have to try. Robinson shakes his head. Boyce doesn't blame him.

He's not sure he understands. himself, but he needs to do this. One month later, Santa Barbara, California. Boy smokes a cigarette in the darkest corner of a deserted car park, close to the beach, and checks his watch. It's almost 9pm. Right on time, a car turns into the car park. It stops under the lots only street lamp.

An attractive, flame-haired woman gets out. She is Lee's new lawyer, and she has a reputation and she has a reputation for being feisty and determined. She is also the only way Boyce can get a message to Lee that won't get intercepted by prison authorities. Boyce can tell from the way she's looking around that she's nervous. He takes a deep breath and emerges from the shadows. Gate Mills?

Yeah, and you're my mysterious phone caller? Boyce nods. To get her to this meeting, he called her and said he had new information that could help Lee's parole application, providing she meets him here alone. Mills narrows her eyes at him. So, who are you? What's this new information? We'll get to that, but I need to ask you, is Dalton optimistic about his parole application?

No, I don't think he is. It's a bit of a long shot. But I don't give up, easy. Why? Boyce knows that any attempt to break out of prison will put a stopper on Lee's chances of parole. Knowing that Lee's unlikely to get parole, reassures Boyce that he should press on with his plan to break him out of prison. I need to get a message to him. Kate, folds her arms. Cut the bullshit. What do you really want?

Does Doughton ever talk about helicopters? Helicopters? No, why? If I asked you to pass something onto him... The sound of a police siren sends a shiver of fear up boister's spine. He turns and sprints back to the safety of the shadows and down a nearby alleyway, leaving Lee's confused lawyer, standing alone in the deserted car park.

A few days later, Port Angeles, Washington State. In an industrial port town, next to the Canadian border, Boyce gets into his car with a bag of takeout fast food and starts to eat. Boyce relocated here from Idaho a few weeks ago to enroll in flying lessons. It's also a better location to plan his prison rescue of Lee, although he still needs a way to let Lee know what he's planning. Just as he bites into the juicy burger, a gun barrel suddenly appears at his open window. Drop the burger.

His mouth's still full of food. Boyce slowly turns his head. A large group of heavily armed U.S. Marshals have surrounded his car. In the rearview mirror, he can see more running his way. Boyce sighs and puts down his burger. Later that night, in a nearby hotel, Boyce sits on a chair in handcuffs and watches the FBI agents and US Marshals partying in the next room. The manhunt for him has been one of the biggest of the decade and stretched as far afield as South Africa and Australia. Two marshals enter the

room jovially carrying a camera. Hey boys, mind if we get a photo with you? Sure, just don't explain me to smile. Ha ha! Good one. The second FBI agent sits on the edge of the bed. Man, We looked all over the world for you. We were sure you'd gone to Russia. I can't actually believe you're still in the country. Why didn't you just go over the border when you had the chance? Voices lips twist Riley. I'm starting to wonder that myself, but I had some unfinished business.

16 years later, July 1997, Santa Maria, California. Dalton Lee sits in a coffee shop with his mother and brother. It's his first day of freedom, having been let out on Paris. role that morning. It's been 20 years since he was convicted of spying. His black tousal hair is now cut short and peppered with grey. After placing their orders, Lee excuses himself. I gotta make a quick call. He walks out of the coffee shop and to a nearby payphone and calls Kate Mills, the lawyer whose determination won him his release. It's a beautiful day in the free world. Only because they were sick of hearing from you. Seriously, Kate, thank you. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you.

You're welcome. Lee stares at the people shopping around him and thinks about his next words. Listen, I know you're representing Chris Boyce now. Lee can picture Mills's shock at him mentioning Boyce. And all the time she's been his lawyer, Lee has never once mentioned Boyce by name. At most, he would call him my co-defendant. More usually, he'd refuse to talk about him at all. Yeah, is that okay? Lee doesn't like it, but he knows Mills is fueled by a sense of outrage about how both men have been treated by the legal system. Even though she's been diagnosed with cancer, Lee's heard she won't stop working on Boyce's parole.

Yeah, well, I don't like the guy, and you need to focus on your health, but apparently he was coming back from me when he got caught. Anyway, it doesn't matter why I'm saying this, but you should note down these names, Pitts and Nicholson. Pitts and Nicholson were an FBI officer and a CIA officer convicted of selling secrets to the Soviets. Despite being professional espionage officers, they received dramatically lighter sentences than Boyce. And in 1984, Congress passed an act to standardise sentencing for federal crime, and that in turn means Boyce should be eligible for a parole hearing now.

Of course, I can't believe I missed that. That's why you shouldn't work when you're sick. Dalton, you're a genius. Thank you. Lee hangs up and returns to his family, realizing that only now does he feel truly free. Dalton Lee qualified as a dental technician while in prison. He now lives privately and still refuses to speak to Christopher Boyce.

After his recapture, Boyce was sentenced to 68 years in prison, but determined lobbying by his lawyer, Kate Mills, saw him released on parole in September 2002, after serving 23 years. During the fight for his freedom, Boyce and Mills fell in love and married after his release from prison. Although now divorced, they remain close friends. Boyce spends his days hiking and practicing falconry in central Oregon. Nobody has ever determined the amount of damage Boyce and Lee's spying inflicted on the U.S. Boyce admitted to investigators

he was often so drunk or stoned when he stole documents that he could not remember what was on them. When the Soviet Union broke up, no KGB documents or files relating to the pair could be found. However, US prosecutors told the court it was the first time the KGB ever penetrated the country's surveillance satellite operations. The pair revealed to the KGB the existence of US spy satellites that monitored the Soviet Union's nuclear weapons program, knowledge that would make it easier to implement countermeasures to deceive the satellites. While the ciphers provided by Boyce and Lee would allow the KGB to decode secret CIA messages, the Soviets would have also needed to know the radio frequency

those messages were broadcast on to intercept them. Bois's courtroom testimony about the CIA deceiving Australia caused a political firestorm between the two allies. It led to a renegotiation of the contracts for the US satellite bases in that country. Join us for the next episode, where Charlie Higson sits down with Kate Mills Boyce. She's the lawyer who managed to secure Chris's early release from prison. She's also his former wife. From Audible originals, this is the third episode in our season, The Spy Who Sold Codes and Cocaine. A quick note about our dialogue.

We can't know everything that was said or done behind closed doors, particularly far back in history. But our scenes are written using the best available sources. So even if a scene or conversation has been recreated for dramatic effect, it's still based on biographical research. We used many sources in our research for this season, including The Falcon and the Snowman by Robert Lindsay and American Sons by Christopher Boyce, Kate Boyce and Vince Font.

The Spy Who is hosted by me, Raza Jaffrey. Our show is produced by Vespucci. with writing and story editing by Yellow Ant for Audible. For Yellow Ant, this episode was written by Judy Cooper and researched by Louise Byrne, with thanks to Marina Watson and Russ Avery. Our managing producer is Jay Priest. For Vespucci, our senior producer is Ashley Clibbery. Our sound designer is Alex Port Felix.

Natalia Rodriguez is the supervising producer. Music supervisor is Scott Velasquez for Frisson Singh. Executive producers for Bisbucci are Johnny Galvin and Daniel Turcan. Executive producer for Yellow Ant is Tristan Donovan. Executive producers for Audible are Estelle Doyle, Theodorella Luddis and Marshall Louis.